O fire of light divine,
Sweet Flame unscorching, pure,—
Against dismay our countersign,
Against all grief a cure,—
Shine on thy servant poor!—
The fickle glory of the world,
Its vain prosperity,
He contemplates;
His reasonings profound behold
The centre where there lie
The ills he hates.
Let him who thinks him wise
The Siren's call attend!
She fearing in amend
The torments that chastise,
Weeps that her reign must end.